


Scary Times

by StumpyTPDimples



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: All the whump really, Clint whump, F/M, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt/Comfort, Violence, Whump, Whumptober 2018, Will update when needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-25 08:36:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16193942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StumpyTPDimples/pseuds/StumpyTPDimples
Summary: Whumptober 2018 means all the Clint whump!





	1. Stabbed

_**Stabbed** _

There was a time, when he was younger, that running up the stairs of the main circus tent to get to the back row of seats winded the ever loving crap out of Clint.

Unfit, Buck told him. No way he'd ever make it in the business like that. So the next morning he was brought on a run, then cardio training, then sword training, then archery, then run, then cardio, then sword, then archery, then...

And on and on it went until a few months later he was in top shape. Sure, most times it didn't help at all when he was young. He hated every second of it and thought that he'd never have to run this much. But he soon learned the reason they were adamant about it. Important to be in shape, sure, but it's just as important to be steady and solid using your tools during a show. Or during a late night run around where he had to play point while the others break into a mansion to keep the circus going...

That memory was floating in and out of his mind as he lay on the rooftop, sprawled on his back trying to fill his lungs with air.

It was burning him - so fucking bad - to get even the littlest bit of breath in. He had chased a rouge AIM member up to here and taken him out in hand to hand - the guy currently lay unconscious on Clint's sprawled out arm. Cap wouldn't have been impressed if he actually took the guy out permanently, even if he deserved it.

He shouldn't be this out of breath after it though. There's no way a short scuffle would have his chest heaving and his whole body aching. Sure the guy got some lucky shots in, but come on, this was ridiculous!

_Getting old, Barton..._

"Code 4, all clear. Status?" Steve's voice filtered through his comms.

He had to respond. Clint swallowed hard and fought back some nausea, shutting his eyes as if shutting out the world would help. Running did that when he first started, he'd have to tell Buck to stop and let him throw up wherever they were. He'd get a rap across the head for it, be told to clean it up, and after the third time he learned to keep it down instead.

How long had it been since his last mission? The Avengers had been quiet lately, maybe he hasn't been keeping himself in as good a shape as he should have been.

Voices were spinning in his head, a mixture of confirming area's were clear and status reports, someone telling someone to calm someone down, someone saying something about take-out tonight, someone calling for alcohol instead. His mind couldn't focus on it.

His mind could just focus on this fucking pain and how his right side was on fire all of a sudden. On fire but freezing cold, that couldn't be right.

Was it warm today? Maybe it was. The sun was beating down earlier, they were out on the balcony with some cards and drinks before the call came in. That'd do it then. A cool down from adrenaline on a warm day, he was just cooling down, it was ok, there was nothing going on. He was winded, he was just sweating it all off.

"Barton!" His eyes snapped open at the yell, not knowing where it came from. He was in no way able to defend himself like this.

There was no one around him, he glanced around from his prone position to see who yelled his name. But no one.

Why was he on a roof top? There was a reason. There was black creeping around his vision now, hazy, was this a dream? Real life didn't really look like this, did it?

"Status Barton!" A male voice, it was too loud, coming from his ear. His imagination? He lifted a hand and felt his ear, something small and hard was there.

A comm.

A mission.

That was it. That was the body lying on his arm right now, that made sense.

Clint pushed the man off, grunted at the effort and sat up. Fighting off the dizzy spell, fighting off the nausea, fighting to get air into his lungs, fighting off the urge to just lay back down and sleep because god damn that would be amazing right now - all of that was becoming more and more difficult.

"I'm alright." He grunted, dropping the bow from his hand to have a bit of support standing up.

His whole body protested, his side blinded his whole system a bright white as heat spread out from it. It took all Clint had not to scream out from pain.

Breathing was impossible before, but once he stood there was definitely no air getting in, it was all just escaping, like a one way valve was suddenly installed.

"Location?" Natasha. He'd know that voice anywhere, but it didn't help the panic that was taking over like it usually would.

A wave of dizziness had him looking down to try get his balance back, and he came face to face with a puddle of blood at his feet. Edges caked dry, it was there a bit of time, the centre was still somewhat fresh though - glistening.

He glanced over to the man he had taken out earlier, but there was no visible wounds on his person. Clint had taken him out with a choke, maybe the back of the guys head was bleeding? Whacked it on the way down to the ground? If it was Clint would have to help, the guy would probably die otherwise.

"Clint, location?" Natasha repeated. But Clint was busy making sure his mark was still alive. He took a step and something stung on his right side again.

Glancing down he saw a tear in his tact suit, something sticking out of it that definitely shouldn't be there.

Tentatively he touched the area around where the item was, a small cylindrical shape, a handle he thought. Clint frowned when his fingers coming away red.

He wasn't winded, this was a little bit worse than that. And just like a with a paper-cut, once you actually realise you have it then the pain hits. Man, it hit hard.

"Oh.." He muttered, the dizziness taking hold a little too much this time, sending the world tilting.

His mind was black before he even felt the impact of the rooftop.

* * *

"Some bruises, a few little grazes, looks like a broken knuckle that might be a bit of bitch..." The words were confusing Clint's mind. They were out of place in the haze, though that was slowly clearing itself now. He had to shake it off.

He knew that when he heard the voice though he had to open his eyes, because he knew it was pissed off at something. If he didn't respond, it will be worse for him in the long run. That was the only thought he was certain about right now.

After a few tries his eyelids finally responded and opened themselves up. The room he was in was definitely medical wing Tony had built. He knew by the damn ceiling fan that was making his dizzy above his head. Every damn time he woke up here it was there annoying him. Then there was pain, a dull ache deep in every part of his being. He couldn't pin point it right now, but it was there.

When his vision cleared enough to make sense of his surroundings he rolled his head to the side. It was a mistake. The dull pain turned blinding in some parts. He closed his eyes and let a whimper escape at the burst that spread throughout his body. Something happened that had him used and abused by doctors, he knew this pain.

He had to have CPR. The ribs were definitely bruised, if not broken, but not maliciously. He won't even mention the pain breathing caused right now...

"Something else as well, I think..." Natasha's voice softened somewhat from before, though the tap on the top of his head had his eyes snapping back open to see her frowning his way. "Ohh yes, that's it... A god damn knife deflating your god damn lung. What the hell, Clint?"

"I don't-" He coughed harsh, his throat feeling like he had swallowed an entire bucket of sand. The movement hurt everything, had his lungs burning and had that now familiar feeling of no oxygen getting into his system taking over. It took all he had to fight away the blackness again.

Maybe he didn't though, because he doesn't remember Natasha sitting down by the bed and taking his hand but when he next looked her way she was doing just that, and he had been sat up in the bed a little bit instead of lying flat. He lost a bit of time, he hated that feeling.

"Sorry." He mumbled, low. His throat hurt, he wouldn't be speaking for a while, comfortably at least. Although maybe he'd try if it got a smile like that from Natasha every time.

"Glad you're back, Hawk." She said quietly, her free hand moving up to stroke his hair softly. "But do that to me again and a knife will be the least of your worries." 


	2. Bloody Hands

_**Bloody Hands** _

The target at the bottom of the 20 foot range was starting to blur. He couldn't tell if it was from exhaustion or something else. Something in his eye, definitely not any kind of emotion causing it.

Clint took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, centring himself. The arrow was draw, his fingers in line with his lips so that he could feel the breath he released as it blew softly passed them.

With his eyes still closed he let the arrow fly, knowing he already had it lined up right. In quick succession he opened fire with four more arrows, only then opening his eyes to see his damage.

Like the previous million times in the last five hours - a glance at the clock showed four hours fifty two minutes but who's counting - the five arrows formed a perfect line down the circular target, splitting it in half from top to bottom.

He lowered his bow as he started the walk to retrieve his arrows. He pulled them out with more force than necessary, gripping them tightly and leaving small chunks in the cork of the board. He'd have to ask Stark to order a new one after this.

Ensuring that the tips were all ok he placed them back into the quiver on his back and started the retreat to his starting point.

He loved the pain right now. The harsh stinging in his fingers, the raw blistering pain of his palm, the tightness of his shoulders that would take a hell of a physio session to release. It reminded him he was alive, and it was his punishment for everything that fucked up on his account.

He shook his head clear. The whole reason he was here was to keep that thought from his mind. He was here to focus on his breathing, on the pull of the bow string, of the glide of the arrow, the thunk of the board. The pain in his hand that the slicing string and rough bow caused. A pain that should be a lot worse somewhere else right now.

He let the arrows fly without thought, without focus, slightly off but right now his mind was too.

"I'd keep whatever you have to say to yourself, Cap." Clint mumbled, his throat dry and sore with the hours of lack of use. The space was big enough to acoustic it around though. He started the walk to the target again, ignoring the man standing in the door way.

"Just watching." Steve replied. Cool and collected. Clint spared a glance the mans way, spotting him leaning against the door of the gym. His hair was in a mess, he had been worried. Rogers always pulled at his hair when something was on his mind. The hoodie hung loose off his shoulders, his comfy clothes. He had been waiting for a while if he was in those.

Clint glanced down at his own mission gear; covered in grime and tears and...

He didn't want to change yet. There was no point. When he came to the tower they tried get him to, tried to get him to eat and shower and rest, but he wanted to shoot.

The arrows were back in the quiver, the archer back at his mark, so the bow raised and he went about his business.

"She's asking for you."

He stalled in his last arrow, eyes closing against the stinging once more as he let the tension release.

"Thought you were just watching." Clint mumbled through gritted teeth, ignoring the images in his mind right now.

Being surrounded, trying to fight, getting knocked the fuck out, her jumping in front of him, the gun raising, the bullet, the blood...

"Well you want one thing, Natasha wants another." He hated how cool Steve always sounded.

He shouldn't be that relaxed, shouldn't be able to speak so easily about what happened, shouldn't be standing here. Steve should be by her side in case she needed anything, in case she got bad, in case there was no one else there if something happened. He should be in Clint's place right now, because Clint just couldn't.

"You know what Natasha wants, Natasha gets."

"She got a bullet to the chest, did she want that?" Clint asked lowly, opening his eyes to swing around and aim the arrow Steve's way. The Captain didn't even so much as blink in surprise. "How about I send this through your chest and you can tell me if that's something anyone would want?"

"Clint-"

"Don't try make this better!" Clint voice finally raised, but he couldn't help the crack in it. He just hoped Steve didn't notice it. "It should have been my head."

"We don't know that-"

"You weren't there. You don't know anything."

"Clint, listen-"

"I don't want to." Clint sighed, shaking his head and turning to send the arrow into the target. He drew another.

_Focus on this, Clint. Focus on the arrow going into the board, focus on nothing but your breathing and the feeling and not on her lying prone on her back bleeding out with no way to help other than push so fucking hard you were convinced you broke something in her rather than help._

Another arrow sailed through the air before Steve tried speak up again.

"I know we weren't there. I'm sorry." He began, Clint kept tabs on the other man movement in his peripheral. He was creeping a little closer, Clint would allow him for now. "It wasn't our mission, it was yours, you can't hold that against us."

"I don't..." Clint sighed, shoulders slumping slightly in defeat. The Captain sounded disappointed, he hated that he made him sound like that. "I just... Don't make it sound like what happened was ok."

"I'm not." Steve replied. "None of it was ok, all of it was a shit show. But Clint, it's ok now. You got out, you're fine. She's fine, you saved her."

"I got a bullet in her chest." He growled, putting the arrow back in his quiver before walking to the side of the gym to stow away his bow.

"What about if the alternative did happen?" Steve pushed, following after Clint. "What would she be like?"

"The fuckers would be dead if that happened." Clint replied quietly, locking his bow away. A smear of blood appeared on the lock and he frowned slightly at it. "I let them go."

"You were concussed, trying to stop Natasha bleeding out. I'd hardly say you let them go."

Clint turned his hand over to see where the blood had come from. His shooting fingers, the ones he refused to cover so he could feel the sting, were dripping blood down his hand from wire cuts. He had no idea how long they'd been like that, the feeling wasn't enough. He used his other hand to press down on them, testing it, but still nothing.

"You did everything you could. You can't control the things that go wrong, just like you can't control what she decides to do when they do go wrong. If that was the same position you'd have jumped in front of her in a heartbeat, and you know what? She'd be by your bedside right now instead of sulking in a shooting range and - Jesus Clint..." Steve's rant cut short, the last two words being breathed behind him, at Clint's shoulder, and he cursed himself for allowing someone to get so close without realising. "Lets get you cleaned up..."

Steve was right. He was always right. It didn't make him feel better at all about it, but it at least made him realise that maybe he should pull his head out of his ass and help the woman who saved his life instead of hiding. The exhaustion hit him like a tonne weight, the blood triggering something in him that screamed 'Go get some fucking rest you idiot.' He had to smile at it because it oddly sounded like Natasha's voice.

"She probably hates me." He whispered, defeated. He accepted Steve's hand on his shoulder and allowed the man to pull him towards the door.

"I don't think that's ever possible." Steve said quietly, shaking his head. "You two could never hate each other. The world would be on fire if you did."

Clint smiled a little more at that, his eyes on his hands as they walked their way to his living area.

The blood was piling up a little more now, a few drops had fallen that he knew would have be cleaned up later, but right now he didn't care.

He had blood on these hands.

In more ways than one.


	3. Insomnia

_**Insomnia** _

They called this place 'The City That Never Sleeps'. That saying hasn't hit Clint as much as it had the past few nights. When the world should be asleep there'd still be a hustle and bustle on the streets, cars flying by a little easier without the day time traffic, laughing and joking and singing coming from party goers as they passed the late night business men just trying to get home.

The city that never sleeps lives up to its name. Clint felt like he fit in perfectly lately.

The rooftop of the tower was cold, freezing some would say since it was mid January, but he liked it. It reminded him that he was still kicking, let him know that he hadn't succumbed to whatever was trying to take him lately. The blanket he had wrapped around his shoulders currently as he watched the lights of cars below was enough to ward off a bad chill.

It was a stupid fight, he knew it was. He knew that both of them were out of order - he was injured and emotional, she was worried and annoyed. It was a recipe for disaster. They had that one night together between him getting back from mission and her going out on one and he blew it all by being hurt and acting like it was nothing.

But it was nothing. He's had concussions before, he's had stitches before, that's nothing. He just wanted to have a nice dinner and evening with her. But Natasha was pushing for hospital, was pushing for something other than his own hand dealing with the injuries, saying something like him being too much of a pin cushion already and professionals would be better.

And he snapped. He told her to back off and mind her own business, that he didn't care what she thought, and it came out so wrong. So very wrong.

The hurt in her eyes as she stormed out of his apartment was something he couldn't get out of his mind since.

And now she was gone, a week ago she left without answering even one of his calls that night, and there's been no word since. He's sure there's been her check ins, otherwise a call would be made for recon and rescue, but she's ignored everything from him.

The lights below him blurred together for a moment, until Clint shut his eyes tight and shook his head clear. Nearly a week with no sleep was catching up on him fast, and he couldn't do anything to help it.

What if, when she came back, it would continue like this? What if he had finally done the one thing that would push her away forever? There were plans, major plans, albeit in his mind and not spoken out loud.

And they plagued him each and every time his head hit the pillow. Leaving him with no closure had every single 'what if' torturing him every time his eyes closed.

The house they're fixing up together, how it's supposed to be their home. The plan of either growing old together or dying in a blaze of glory together. The thought of one day going on a tour around the world without having to fight their way there or back. The dog and cat they wanted, all of the stupid business ideas they had, all of the pranks that were yet to destroy Tony's sanity.

That ring sitting in his underwear drawer.

Clint opened his eyes and focused on the ground below once more, the city swimming back into focus a moment later. It was a lot calmer, the wind a little smoother, it made him think that maybe he caught another little cat nap before his thoughts took hold again. The coffee he had brought out with him an hour ago had definitely gone cold, but he reached out and finished off the half mug regardless.

What if she came back and it would continue like this? That would kill him. But, worse, what if she didn't come back at all..?

_Dammit Clint not again._

He let out a groan and moved from his cross legged position, shuffling his way towards the roof door with his blanket still wrapped around his shoulders.

If he couldn't sleep now, he didn't want to know what it would be like if the last thing they ever got to do together was fight.

On his travels down to his room he paused at a sound coming from the kitchen. He knew it was way too early for anyone to be awake - Tony would have gone to bed after the lab shut down at 3am, Steve doesn't wake until 5am, that's a whole hour away. The hallway he was in was still lit, the sensors turning the lights on as soon as he entered, so when the figure came out of the kitchen entrance he could see it clearly.

She was in a dressing gown, the fluffy one she wore during the winter time, and her hair was up in a towel. In one hand was a steaming cup, tea he figured by the time of day, and her other hand held a phone she was scrolling through.

She looked perfect, like she hadn't been away for an entire week on a mission, really Clint expected nothing else from Natasha.

A couple of steps into the hallway she sensed him - her steps pausing and her head slowly lifting to set her gaze on him. Her eyes drifted up and down, and a frown spread onto her face slowly.

He probably looked like he was on a mission for a week - longer maybe. He hadn't showered in a few days so he knew his hair was up in all kinds of directions. His sweat pants were tore - though they were for months now after a gym incident which is why they were now his pyjamas. And he didn't even want to think about what kind of bags were under his eyes right now.

"I guess you're not up to start the day." She said softly, carefully, stopping Clint's heart, in the best way possible, because she wasn't annoyed. She sounded fine.

His eyes stung for a moment, so he lifted a hand to rub at them gently. She was definitely a mirage, the world was fuzzy again.

"Well, no." He replied quietly, frowning a little more. How long had it been since he's spoken? Bruce asked him questions a little while ago, checking his concussion level to see if he was ok. How long ago was that? Days and nights were blending together now.

"If it was nightmares you'd still be in bed, just in case someone startles you." She started, Clint had to frown her way when the words hit his ears. She was eyeing him up and down again, studying him, reading him, he hated when she did this. He shifted from one bare foot to the other awkwardly. "So you weren't asleep at all. I'd take a bet that you haven't slept in - oh - five days now? Maybe you had a nap after lunch yesterday?"

He narrowed his eyes her way, mouth moving but no words forming. She was good, but there was no way she was THAT good.

"Steve?" Clint swung a guess her way. The good Captain had been less than impressed at Clint not sleeping, it could definitely be enough for him to tattle.

"Pepper." Natasha corrected with a casual shrug. Clint smiled and nodded, the action feeling almost foreign on his face.

"You know, it's just... When you left-"

"I'm back now." Natasha cut him off, continuing her quiet steps his way. He stepped aside when it seemed like she wasn't stopping and, sure enough, she walked passed him and towards her room. "Get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow. After you shower though."

Clint watched her retreat - as suddenly as she appeared she was gone again.

But she spoke to him. Clint would count that as a win. If she wasn't just a mirage... But that scent as she passed - lavender and gun powder - it was unmistakable and it had his mind in heaven.

A yawn escaped his lips without him even knowing it was forming, quickly followed by a shiver that wracked his entire body to it's core. Sheer exhaustion.

The City That Never Sleeps kept him company for the past few nights. Letting him fit into a place when he felt like there was no where for him to be.

Or maybe it kept him hostage. Company meant he wanted it, he'd never want something as bad as those long nights were. Now he felt like his bed was the only place he needed to be.

Clint had to sleep it off.

For once in the past week, when his head hit the pillow and her scent faintly wafted his way, his mind went blank and the city released him from it's grasp.


	4. "No, stop!"

_**"No, stop!"** _

The words - panicked and rushed - left Clint's mouth just a fraction of a second after Steve foot pressed down on the pressure plate.

The two men froze in their places. The small, dimly lit corridor they were in was an old bunker, intel suggested the basements armoury holds a treasure chest of Hydra weaponry that SHIELD and the Security Council would much prefer in their hands. To be destroyed or to be used was something that Clint didn't have the clearance or the balls to ask.

When they got the plans for the base they did imagine it would be trapped someway - some doors wired up with explosives, trap doors in the floors, classic old school firing traps that would skewer them in half a second flat.

Clint didn't think that there would be a pressure plate until way too late, and the click of the mechanism engaging under Steve's foot echoed around the hall way along with Clint's scream of "No, stop!".

Steve was still as anything, his right foot firmly placed on the plate, his left on the actual floor. His eyes were locked onto Clint's with a fierce determination that he can't ever remember seeing in the Captains features before.

"Ok..." Clint breathed out, his voice low as if he was approaching some kind of wild animal. He was just a few steps behind Steve, watching the mans six as they went through the building for anything that could be a danger. He was kicking himself now for spotting the actual danger too late.

Carefully Clint lay down his bow, Steve's eyes followed it and followed Clint back up when he stood straight.

They were screwed.

"Nothing happened." Steve whispered, passing Clint his shield when the archer held his hand out for it. He lay it down against the wall, safely away from the situation. "Maybe it's a dud."

"You want to take that chance?" Clint laughed humorlessly, Steve's jaw set in an unimpressed way in response. Clint held his hands up in surrender. "Let me have a look, ok? Probably a dud."

Steve nodded, his eyes slowly travelling down to where his right foot was.

Clint advanced carefully, just in case there was anything else that would set off, but he made sure to follow the same steps the Captain took before the incident happened. When he knew it was safe, and when he was close enough, Clint crouched down to try get a better look.

The tile matched the others - a dirty old sandstone block that probably should have dissolved years ago. When Steve stepped on it there was something spring loaded under neath that dropped it away from the rest of the tiles. The old tile had split into two at the movement, it probably hadn't felt some kind of force in a number of decades and couldn't hold up to a super soldier.

It was vibrating slightly too, maybe the spring was settling and it - no wait. It wasn't.

Clint frowned a little when he realised the vibrations were coming from Steve's foot. The man above him was trembling. Clint let his eyes move up the mans body, every single inch of him was both rigid and trembling at the same time. The Captain was looking dead straight ahead down the hall way, arms crossed over his chest in a classic defensive pose.

He was panicking.

Clint couldn't blame him.

Barton reached into his boot and pulled out his combat knife, slowly working on chipping away part of the tile to see what they were dealing with underneath.

This was an old World War Two bunker - the kind Steve and his Commandos would clear day in and day out back in the war. Steve had given Clint and Fury a run down of all the possibilities that may meet them, and Clint would bet everything that he owned that they were all running through Rogers' mind right now. How many men had Steve watch set something like this off? How many of them did he have to either drag out or leave there and send nothing but a letter home to the family?

The man was struggling, and Clint wasn't sure how to help.

But when did that ever stop him from trying?

"Bringing back memories, buddy? The good ol days?" Clint said, pulling away part of the tile that he successfully chipped off before starting the task once more. Steve's foot kept a steady pressure all throughout. They both knew that a trap either happened when a pressure pad was pushed or released, and this looked like the latter.

"Something like that." Steve breathed. The slight movement let Clint know the man was looking down his way, but he was too focused on the tile to look back up.

"I get that. Corn dogs do that for me." Not the same, Clint knew. But maybe corn dogs being thrown at you while you lay physically incapacitated with exhaustion and injuries counted as PTSD just as much as this situation did. "I guess I'm not as good a choice in this situation as your old guys though."

"They'd have run far away instead of poking at it." His laugh was small, quiet, but Clint would take it. A quarter of the tile was removed now, the knife making a scraping sound as he worked on the rest.

"Good thing I'm too stupid for that."

"Not stupid." Steve said quietly, his focus drawn away enough to ease the trembling. He always needed someone to look after, that's what Clint had learned. "Who says that about you?"

"You'd be surprised." Clint smirked. "People see me as the guy who just shoots, nothing to think about, nothing to plan. Just aim and shoot, aim and shoot, aim and shoot. Sometimes works in my favour, though. You just have no idea hoe exhausting it is to act the idiot all the time."

He left enough of the tile in place to not disturb the pressure pad, that would be counter intuitive, but enough was now away for him to get a good look.

When he pulled the knife away and lay it on the floor next to him the scraping sound continued beneath Steve's foot. It made Clint frown a little. If the tile was crumbling from beneath from his actions then he probably would have to run away. Carefully he leaned down fully, his ear just at Steve's heel to give a listen.

Scraping was the wrong word. It was more rhythmic than that, constant, the same tone over and over again. Tick, tick, tick, ti-

"Oh." Clint murmured to himself, his eyes closing in annoyance at what that meant.

"Oh?" Steve repeated above him, a little quicker than Clint murmured it though. "What oh? Clint?"

"Nothing." Clint smiled up his way, moving his head a little more to look under the tile. He couldn't have Steve panic now. He was better not knowing there was bomb that could go off and any moment.

He couldn't see much other than some kind of steel making up the triggering mechanism. That isn't what he needed to find right now, so he took the torch from the combat pocket on his trousers and tried shine it in to the best of his ability.

He ignored Steve's questions of what he was doing, trying to train his eyes to spot what he needed to. There was some amount of rubble and earth packed under the floor, enough of a gap for the mechanism to trigger but it was tightly packed in to keep it from shifting and being set off early or accidentally. Just at the back of it, hidden if his eyesight wasn't as good as it was, was a red wire running from the opposite side and through to another tile section. Towards the wall. Whatever bomb this was about to set off wasn't directly under them, it was somewhere to the side of them. Clint would bet his money on it being above. That way the blast wouldn't only bury whatever intruders set it off but it would also bury the facilities under them. It was a classic trap.

"Clint! What's the plan?" Steve yelled, snapping Clint from his thoughts. He shook his head and stood up fully, smiling Steve's way.

"Geez Steve, relax." He moved around the Captain to the tile on the other side of him, grabbing his knife and carefully lifting that one up too. The red wire was clear as day there, continuing on towards the wall. Two more tiles between that and the wall, and they yielded the same results. The wire did run into the wall somewhere, and that's all Clint needed to know.

"Ok, it's a dud." Clint smiled, turning from the wall to look at Steve once more. The man furrowed his brow together, not believing Clint in the slightest it would seem. "But we should dismantle it just in case."

"Dismantle? Jesus Barton, we don't have the time for that." Steve ran a hand over his face, thinking it through. "How confident are you that it's a dud?"

_It's a bomb that's going to blow us sky high._

Clint ignored his mind to instead shrug.

"That wire is disconnected. But I'd like to dismantle it to bring back to Shield."

"We can do that afterwards."

Clint sighed and shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck to think this through. Steve's tension had him off balance. His right foot had stalled, his left somewhat behind it in fear of moving anymore, so what he was about to do was made a little easier.

"Sorry about this, Cap." Clint sighed, shaking his head at how stupid this was.

Before Steve could question anything, Clint swung a fist at his jaw. The second Clint's fist connected he moved to put his right foot where Steve's was, not giving the pressure plate a chance to spring back up and activate as Steve fell on his ass.

This all happened in a split second, Steve was on his down and rubbing his jaw before he even realised Clint had moved.

"What the hell was tha-" Steve words broke off when he looked up to see Clint in his place. His eyes moved from Clint's to his foot to his eyes again before he frowned. "What is it?"

"It's a dud." Clint shrugged with a smile, waving Steve off when he looked like he was about to say more. "Trust me, Cap. But I want to make sure. You're stronger than I am. The truck we came in has a big tool box, I need you to go get it."

"Clint-" Steve's voice was down to a whisper, Clint wasn't fooling him at all. But the archer wasn't having any of it and cut him off again.

"Take my bow and quiver with you?" He carefully shrugged the quiver off his back and handed it over. His right leg was already cramping, it was anticipating what was about to happen.

"No." Steve shook his head quickly, his eyes not leaving Clints. It was fear there, a fear he hasn't seen before. "Clint if this is something-"

"Which it isn't Steve-"

"Don't bull shit me." Steve growled, Clint snapped his mouth shut at it. "What is it?"

"It might be a bomb." Clint admitted quietly, shaking his head when Steve's shoulders slumped in defeat. "But it might not be. I don't know what it is but it's ticking and I don't want to find out."

"Switch places with me." Steve was determined now, he stood and got into Clints space once more. But Clint held his ground and offered his quiver to Steve once more.

"You need to get the tool box and-"

"You need to listen to your captain." Steve barked, an order, and Clint frowned. "Get the fuck off the plate now, Barton."

"I'm not one of your commandos, Steve. You can't order me around."

"The hell I can't! You're not invisible, Clint! If this thing is a bomb then the best person to be there is me!"

"Why? Super serum?" Clint scoffed, Steves eyebrows raised to tell him to go on or shut up. Clint chose the former. "That won't help if your limbs are blown off."

"It might."

"It won't." Clint shook his head, trying to push the quiver into Steve's hand but the stubborn bastard just stood stock staring Clint down. Clint sighed and closed his eyes. "Look, if it's something then the world is losing one of us. The headlines won't even blink if it's me who goes, but the world would go into melt down if they lost one of their heroes like this."

"Clint you're-"

"Don't, please." Clint cut off the soft words, keeping his eyes closed to clear whatever moisture was trying to break free. He couldn't listen to the 'You're a hero too!' rant right now. He knew he was, but he was also an agent, no one would mourn him. No one should mourn him. If they did then he did his job as an agent wrong.

The was silence for a moment or two, where neither men seemed to even be breathing.

Clint knew that Steve's resolve had crumbled when he felt the quiver being taken from his hands. He opened his eyes to see Steve frowning his way, eyes darting between his and the pressure plate.

"You know how to dismantle it? I swear Barton if you're lying-"

"Of course I do." Clint grinned. A lie, but Steve didn't need to know that.

"And the tool box will have what you need?"

"I don't really now what I need, but it should have plenty." Clint nodded. Steve still frowned, but Clint could see the moment in the mans eyes when he realised that there was no winning this current battle with Clint.

With a nod Steve took the items in the hallway and started to sprint the way they had come, leaving Clint alone with his thoughts and the literal ticking time bomb beneath his feet.

There was no tool box, so Clint knew Steve would be out there for a long time searching. It would probably take him two minutes - maybe less- to climb the two flights of stairs and get to the truck at the speed he was going.

_1 minutes 37 seconds._

Clint took a deep breath and closed his eyes, willing his foot to stay still for a little longer. He needed to wait two minutes to make sure Steve was clear.

He probably should have taken Steve's helmet, save him from whatever would hit his head. He hoped it would a big enough explosion to knock him out before any pain hit, he was sweating at even the thought of the pain crushing causes. It's the worst simply knowing that your muscles are releasing toxins that slowly kill you, even without you realising it. He'd take a bullet over that any day.

_1 minutes 9 seconds._

Maybe he shouldn't have done this. Death is fine, injury is fine, but how would Steve take it?

_1 minute flat._

Steve was a worrier, if he knew Clint blew himself up because of a mistake he made then Clint wasn't sure how the others would be able to bring him back from that.

_42 seconds._

Really it wasn't Steve's fault. Clint was supposed to be point, on the look out for exactly these kinds of situations, so it was only right that he be the one in this position.

_30 seconds._

There was no way to cut the wire. It would be the exact same result as stepping off it. Kill switching the signal one way or another would cause a boom.

_15 seconds._

Clint took a deep breath and screwed his eyes shut a little tighter. He had to make sure his muscles would listen to his mind otherwise his foot wouldn't move. He clenched his fists, released them, stretched his neck to either side, tested the toes on his right foot and counted.

_10 seconds._

At least the weapons would be destroyed too. He didn't want to know what the council actually had planned with them. This was so much better. He'd be known as a hero whose death accidentally destroyed the weapons rather than becoming a traitor by destroying them himself.

_5 seconds._

No one would miss him, everyone would miss Steve, this was the only way to do it.

_3 seconds._

God this was difficult. One last goodbye to everything couldn't be done in this short amount of time.

_2 seconds._

He never believed that cliche of someone's life flashing before their eyes, but it's exactly what happened. Scenes from the hell that was his childhood and teenage years gave way to the joys and despair of his SHIELD life. Of Coulson and Fury training him up, of saving Natasha and becoming so much more, of all the ups and downs, all the mistakes and triumphs. All the glory of the Avengers, all their problems and all their victories. All their love and hatred for one another.

_1 second._

He clung onto the image of all of them sitting at a table playing cards, laughing and joking and loving the peace that was that moment in their lives.

The smile on his face at that moment was something Clint couldn't remember having around anyone other than them.

It was the perfect image to keep in mind as the explosion deafened him and sent his world black.


	5. Poisoned

_** Poisoned ** _

Something wasn't right.

Natasha's instinct was usually spot on with these kinds of things. She was known for spotting danger a mile away, and right now her gut was telling her that something in her world was wrong.

The tower was quiet, calm, as it always was after a successful mission. Everyone had retreated to their respective de-stressing areas after patching up and ensuring everyone was whole. For Natasha that place was the living area with a cup of tea and a novel.

Clint's was similar. He'd always join her with a cup of coffee and a magazine of either cars or motorbikes, trying to keep up with what's new. He doesn't like to admit it but it's only so he'd be able to talk to Stark about something of interest to them both without coming across as an idiot.

But he had declined a cup of coffee, saying his stomach was feeling queasy, and rather than sitting with a magazine he was sitting at the opposite end of the sofa to her with his arms crossed and his head resting back.

Natasha looked over her book his way and frowned just the slightest. He hadn't been hurt that she knew of, just a gash to his right hand where he had to defend himself against a blade. But nothing worse than that. She wondered now if maybe he had hit his head at all. A concussion would explain an upset stomach and not wanting to read, but he didn't say anything about it. He's hidden stuff like that before though.

"You ok?" She ventured softly, placing her book down on the coffee table, along with her tea, to watch him a little more closely for any lie.

"Tired." He mumbled, slurred, like when his ears would play up and he couldn't hear himself properly. But he heard her fine, answered her quickly, so that wasn't it.

Natasha shifted so she was sitting on the space beside him. Up close now she could see a shimmer from a thin layer of sweat clinging to his face, black bags were forming under his eyes that definitely weren't there before.

_Something's not right..._

"Clint, you want to maybe look at me?" She pushed, shoving his shoulder gently to get a response. All it did was get a low growl.

"Tired, Tash..." If she didn't know his as well as she did then she wouldn't have been able to make out his mumbled words.

"Did you hit your head out there?" She moved off the sofa entirely to instead kneel in front of him, taking his head in her hands to get him to look her way. He was sweating but was cool to the touch. He opened his eyes and frowned slightly, she tried her best to get a look at them.

"Imma puke..." He mumbled before shoving her hands away and jumping to his feet. She jumped back to allow him space but he didn't make it too far. He was on his hands and knees throwing up the contents of his stomach within two feet of their location, right onto the floor.

"Get Tony." Natasha commanded the AI, moving to kneel beside Clint as she did so. She rubbed his back to help him as he continued to heave, it seemed like all he was focused on was that and he hadn't even noticed her presence. "Clint, talk to me."

Clint shook his head quickly, his eyes screwed shut. There was a painful look contorting his features and she hated herself for not knowing how to help.

"Stomach.. Fire.." He moaned the words. His face was pale now and for the first time since getting to his side she looked down at the pile he had formed.

It wasn't any kind of bile or throw up. It was almost entirely bright red - blood.

Natasha felt herself pale almost as much as Clint had.

"Just stay with me." She whispered, rubbing his back a little more. But his eyes weren't opening, his arms were shaking about to give way. She acted as quickly as she could - pushing him over so his arms did give way. He landed on his side without any kind of protest, Natasha had to make sure he stayed that way in case anything else decided to come out of him. "We're getting some help, so just stay with me, talk with me Clint."

No reply. His eyes were screwed shut tight and she definitely wasn't worried about if he was still breathing or not because it was as laboured as she'd ever seen it.

"What's happening?" She didn't look over to Tony as he ran into the area, but she didn't really have to. He slid to his knees on the other side of Clint as soon as he had the chance.

"I don't know." She said quietly, staying calm for both men. She was watching Clint's eyes, her hand squeezing his shoulder to try get a reaction. But there was nothing anymore, just the harsh rise and fall of his chest. Her free hand went to his wrist to get a pulse, no way he was dying like this. "His concentration and awareness went - kept saying he was tired and wouldn't react. Started feeling weak, think he had a fever, started throwing up blood and-"

She's heard of this before. A frown crossed her features as she allowed her eyes stray from Clint's face and to his bandaged hand instead. She was known before SHIELD for lacing her blades with all manners of things. From poison to truth serums to even acid in order to ruin any chance of a wound healing.

"And?" Tony pushed for her to continue. Natasha snapped her head up and shook it quickly, sending a look of panic across Tony that she couldn't worry about right now.

"Get your doctors, quick. Get him down there. They laced him."

"With what?" Tony asked even as he did as told. Friday had already replied an 'on it' to her request at getting the doctors while Tony had stood to pick Clint up bridal style.

She thought the symptoms through as they ran the halls with a still out of it Clint in Tony's arms. Delirium, shock, stomach pain, vomiting laced with blood. All generic symptoms, but she only knew one thing that could cause them this quick.

"Get some blood ready." She said as they ran into the medical bay, Clint lying lifeless on the bed in front of her with Tony moving around the room for supplies. "The fuckers used Arsenic."

* * *

It was an agonising wait while the doctors worked on Clint. When they did finally arrive to the med bay Natasha had already tried her best at a blood transfusion, but her field training wouldn't be enough to help him out at all. Banner had come down to help moments after they arrived, but even his knowledge in this section of health was limited.

There's no magic cure for arsenic, if that's what it actually is. There's just waiting and hoping that the treatments work.

When the doctors arrived Clint had already turned a terrifying pale colour, and she had to keep telling him to hold on because there was no way they were going to be able to bring him back if he decided to clock out of them.

Five hours later and they she was still sitting in the common room, waiting for someone to tell them what was happening. Steve had been sent for - he was off at SHIELD for a de-brief and not impressed one of his team went down under his nose. Friday let them know a few moments ago that he had arrived and he was now out in the hall way talking with Stark.

Natasha sat stock still on the sofa where she had been earlier, eyes on the now bleached and cleaned spot where Clint's blood was a few hours previous. He had gone downhill so quick that it scared her. If it was poisoning then how much of a dose did they use? For it to have such a massive effect on his system it would have to be a solid amount. How long had he been sitting with it? A couple of hours definitely. Had he just been brave and hid the effects as long as he could? She was kicking herself, should have noticed sooner, should have called his bull shit, should have-

"Nat?" Natasha blinked and looked up at the owner of the voice, breaking her from her thoughts. Why she expected it to be Clint she didn't know, the nickname coming from someone else, even if it was Steve, felt wrong with Clint in the condition he's in now. "Doctors came to talk."

Natasha nodded and glanced down again, looking at her hands as they wrung together over and over again. Steve didn't need permission to go on, she felt the weight of him sitting next to her before he spoke again.

"You were right about the poison. You saved his life." He said quietly, a hand falling on her shoulder in an act of comfort. "He isn't out of the woods yet, but he's stable and that's all that matters."

"What's the damage?" She whispered her question, sparing a glance Steve's way. The set in his jaw let her know it wasn't the best.

"You know what can happen with arsenic poisoning?" She nodded to Steve's question. She used it enough in the day. "They don't think anything's happened, it might not happen, they don't know yet. But he responded to treatment, he stabilised Natasha, that's the good thing and all we should focus on right now."

She nodded and reached up to pat Steve's hand and he took the hint to pull it off her shoulder. He had good intentions even if his words did nothing to calm her nerves. Nothing would, she knew that, but she could still humour him.

She stood and started moving towards the door. Steve didn't try stop her.

Natasha knew that she was allowed in with Clint without having to ask. Otherwise no member of the team would have said anything to her about Clint's condition. She passed Tony in the hall and gave him a slight nod of thanks. The guy just saw Clint nearly die, she'd have to buy him a drink and thank him properly soon but for now that was all she could muster.

The walk to the infirmary didn't seem all that long. Her thoughts were too preoccupied with what Steve said. Either they couldn't assess the damage that the poison has done yet because it isn't showing - unconsciousness wouldn't be able to show any nerve damage it might have caused. Either that or they knew exactly what was going on in his body and just weren't telling her in case she went to the SHIELD holding cells and killed every last one of the people from the base regardless of who did this.

She might just do that anyway depending on how she's feeling later.

Natasha paused at Clint's door, her hand resting on the handle.

Whatever about the team needing Clint alive and well, she needed him more than anything in her life. She wouldn't be able to handle a death right now, especially not her partners.

A deep breath later she opened the door and stepped into the room, closing it softly behind her.

Clint was lying on the hospital bed, body covered up to his waist by a blanket. His chest was bare though with leads and cables connected to take his vitals, beeping them onto the damn heart monitor that she's gotten sick of hearing over the years.

"You're gonna hate that." She whispered as she approached the bed, pulling the chair as close to his side as she possibly could. Sure she meant the heart monitor, but more so he'll hate the tube currently shoved down his throat to help him breathe. It always left him with a sore throat. 'Makes me sounds like I smoke 80 a day!" he said once before. It was always a necessary evil though, a rare one but he never let himself or herself forget it happened.

She sat down in the plastic chair - mentally noting to bring down a cushion for her back if she'd be here a while. Her hand found his in an instant, a soft grip holding on waiting for it to grip back, her free hand going to move the damp hairs stuck to his forehead.

"How do we always end up here?" She whispered absentmindedly. Her gaze stayed on his face, waiting for his eyes to open up and tell her it was all a sick joke to get back at her for the bump she gave him during sparring yesterday. "You promised me once that we'd go out in rocking chairs or we'd go out in a blaze of glory... This is neither of those things, Barton."

Her only response was the sound of the heart monitor. After a couple of beats she sighed and closed her eyes. Tight.

"You could have so much damage." Her words were murmurs now, in case someone was listening. No way she was showing emotions to anyone but Clint. "Those mid tier assholes could take you out of the game for good, Clint. That's not right. And you're going to ignore doctors, going to ignore us when we try get you to do your physio, and it's going to be needed so damn badly to get you back to 100 per cent so you can't do that. You have to fight because this is dangerous and scary and - Jesus-"

Natasha sighed to try get a bit of breath back, her chest shaking a little on the exhale. She opened her eyes once more and glanced at his face - peaceful for once. She hated how he only ever had a peaceful sleep when he was injured, it wasn't right.

"How do we always end up here...?" She sighed once more. Carefully, with her free hand because she was not ready to let go of his hand right now, she reached into her jean pocket and pulled out the gold ring that was so often in it's box or on around his neck on a chain. "You beat the odds before, you can do it again."

She lifted his hand carefully, trying not to disturb the drips in the back of it, and slid the ring onto his finger like she had done when they first made their promises to one another. When it was on Natasha ran her thumb along it, gave it a soft kiss, and placed their hands back on the bed.

"You better beat it. Some stupid little poison isn't taking my husband from me."


	6. Betrayed

_**Betrayed** _

"Don't."

"Clint I-"

"Nope."

"Clint-"

"So much nope."

"Clint listen!" Tony cut in, grabbing Clint shoulder and turning the man to face him. The archer hid the wince as best he could, Tony cursed himself for already forgetting the whole reason for this fight and held his hands up in an apology. "Look, she's going to find out."

"Do you know how many years we've been working together?" Clint pushed with an eyebrow raised. Tony shook his head, most of their lives was a ridiculous mystery. "Long enough to know it's better if some things are hidden from her, ok?"

"Would that not make things worse?"

Clint scoffed and turned to continue walking the hall from the infirmary toward the common area. Tony frowned and followed after him.

"What's the scoff for, feathers?"

"You want to talk to me about hiding things from people? How many suits and projects have you hidden from Pepper because she'd be pissed?"

"That's completely different." Tony protested. The didn't stop walking while talking and made it to the kitchen in no time. Clint used his one good arm to pour himself some coffee, it looked like he'd done it a million times before.

His right arm was in a cast from above the elbow to the wrist, he begged them not to anchor it around his hand so he could hide it. A bad fall during a failed training experiment Tony had set up had Clint's arm fractured and shoulder dislocated. He refused painkillers, refused a sling, and nearly refused a cast until Tony knocked some sense into him.

Benched for eight weeks. Tony felt terrible about it.

"Look, there's some things that are better left private." Clint sighed as he hopped up onto one of the breakfast bar's stools. He sipped from his coffee when he was settled, back to Tony.

"She'll find out. Can't wear long sleeves all the time." He nodded at the long sleeved black top Clint currently wore to hide it. It actually did hide the thick cast relatively well.

"It's cold enough weather." He shrugged his good shoulder. Just looking at his back made it so Tony couldn't see any expression. Tony sighed and went to pour himself a cup of coffee as well.

"I kind of broke you, Clint." Tony sighed. He leaned against the counter with his mug and watched the back of Clint's head. "She might forgive you for being an idiot, but Natasha will never forgive me for-"

"For being an idiot as well?" Both men tensed at the voice. Tony noticed Clint turn his head at the same time he did to see Natasha stroll into the kitchen. She ran a hand over Clint's back as some kind of greeting as she passed him. "I've just accepted I'm surrounded by nothing but idiots really."

Clint turned on the stool to face Tony fully, shooting him a look that just screamed 'They won't find your body parts if you utter anything'. He pursed his lips together and nodded at the archer.

"We broke one of your targets in the range." Clint said, shooting a goofy smile Natasha's way. Tony hated how easily he could lie. Well, not a lie, they broke a lot of stuff when Clint was thrown across the room. "Stark thinks you're gonna bury him with it."

"Is that so?" Natasha arched an eyebrow delicately, looking to Tony.

He paused, eyes darting to Clint. Clint's eyebrows arched just the slightest. Tony was not playing it cool, he knew to be afraid of Natasha. And definitely afraid of lying to Natasha. He looked back at the woman in question and smiled.

"Sorry about that, yeah." He nodded. "I'll get it replaced asap."

"Hmm..." She frowned, eyes not leaving Stark's. She had grabbed an orange while they were speaking and was slowly peeling it. A cold sweat broke out on Tony. "That's a shame. I was going to train soon."

"Well he broke a lot of stuff so training room is out of action for a while anyway." Clint said with a shrug. Tony noticed he hid every single ounce of pain in his expression even though he knew shrugging a dislocated shoulder must be agony. He was infinitely more terrified of Clint than he used to be.

"What the hell were you trying?" Natasha sighed, throwing her orange peel in the trash before sliding delicately onto the stool next to Clint. His bad side.

Tony shifted from one foot to the other, taking a sip from his coffee before clearing his throat to try find his voice again. "Testing new repulsors. Completely configured them wrong..?"

"You asking me or telling me?" Natasha asked with an amused smile. That was scarier than anything today.

"No." Tony cracked. He coughed once and shook his head, making his voice a little stronger than last time. Clint faceplamed the action. "They were configured wrong. Blew the place up a little bit."

"I see." Natasha hummed. She glanced at Clint before back at Tony.

_We're made... Throw her off the scent._

"Clint wasn't there." Tony said quickly. Clint groaned and hung his head. "He came in after the explosion, helped me out."

"And you're ok?" Natasha asked delicately. Tony could just nod.

She eyed him up and down for a terrifying moment. He hated when she did this - it was almost like she was seeing into his soul. She cocked her head to one side then glanced at Clint who still had his head hung low.

"And how damaged are you, Clinton?" She asked carefully, a small smile tugging her face. Clint looked to her and shook his head.

"I'm not-"

"He broke his arm." Tony blurted out. Both assassins looked his way. Natasha was definitely smug, Clint looked like he was already hiding Tony's body parts in his mind. "Dislocated his shoulder. Took a hard bump. It wasn't a repulsor, it was a bomb arrow I completely messed up. He went flying across the room, broke targets, smashed weapons, peed his pants a little bit but I'm not supposed to say that, and-"

"Dude, enough!" Clint pretty much squealed, face palming once more. His next words were grumbled around his palm. "Never have I ever been so betrayed in my life..."

"Clint." Tony whispered, stepping closer to the man and ignoring Natasha as she happily ate her orange. "She was reading my mind. I couldn't do it."

"She can't read minds, numb skull." Clint sighed, shaking his head before giving Tony a shove away with his good arm. He turned and gave Natasha a smile that the rest of them knew was only ever reserved for her. "I'm sorry, it's really not that bad. You know I would have told you if it was."

"You wouldn't have, but that's ok." She smiled, patting his bad shoulder hard enough to earn a wince. She jumped from the stool and starting walking out of the kitchen. "Doctors already told me everything. You're not living the wetting your pants down any time soon."

Clint growled and turned in his chair to face plant the counter. Tony smiled a little and patted the man on the back.

"Betrayal is all around me." He murmured to the counter top. "Coffee is the only loyal part of my life."


	7. Kidnapped

_**Kidnapped** _

Drip. Drip. Drip.

It was annoying Clint to no end. It really was. The first thing he was going to do when he got out of here was beat the hell out whatever guard was there with that damn leaky pipe.

It had its uses though. Every 14,000 or so drips a new guard would come. That's how he's been telling time. He guessed it was around every second it dripped, so roughly every 4 hours there'd be a guard change.

The past few days have bored him that much, yes.

He sighed and closed his eyes, leaning his head against the wall he was propped up against then to try relieve the god damn pressure in it. He couldn't be entirely sure but judging by the amount of guard changes and his current dehydration level he'd guess it's been a little over 3 days.

He wouldn't even mind if this happened during a mission, then at least he'd understand people taking him. Get him away from the action, throw the others off guard, but this was just stupid and he hated himself for being caught out.

He was jumped on the way back from the store late one night. Natasha and Tony had sent him out for a late night snack, and what they wanted they usually got one way or another. After leaving the store with his bag of goodies he was jumped from behind by at least two and forced into an alley way. A few seconds later, after putting up a fight, he was pricked with something and woke up in this damn cell.

It was dark but his eyes eventually adjusted. He was in a warehouse of some kind, his cell in the very corner of the the back room. He knew it was a warehouse because every time the door opened for a guard change he could see out into the large area. Whatever they were doing it was loud, it was constant, and it was definitely illegal.

"Wake up." There was a sharp rattle on the bars that had him snap his eyes open. He didn't even lift his head from the wall, instead he just turned his eyes to the southern accent. It was the man - asshole 1 - who had been here when he first woke up in this cage. Little over 5 foot, suit on, dark hair, a smug smirk that Clint couldn't wait to smack right off. Classic bad guy. Clint hated it. "Looking like shit there."

He'd bet he was. He had been in his comfortable clothes when he was asked to go out - paint stained sweat pants and an old t-shirt. Days here had them manky and smelling, and the pants weren't only paint stained anymore. Can't hold back a bladder as long as he's been here, it's just not possible.

"I still need answers."

"Told you before," Clint started, his voice horse from both lack of use and lack of water. "I have no way to get Stark's weapons."

"I once heard that all Avengers had access to them." Asshole 1 hummed curiously.

Clint sighed and closed his eyes again, bringing a hand up to rub at them. He really needed a nap.

"We'll see when they come for me." He said quietly, nuzzling the wall a little to get comfortable. "You can get up close and personal with some of then, how about that?"

"None of them know where you are!" Asshole laughed, booming and loud. Clint winced a little at it, his head was no way prepared for that. It was over dramatic, un-genuine, something was up. "I know you're all good, but come on man. There's no way"

"You know they once found me when I was in the middle of the Sahara Dessert because I missed pick up and SHIELD refused to send another?"

"I don't believe that for one second." Asshole sighed. There was a scraping sound and Clint opened his eyes to see the man pull a chair over to the bars. This was new, he never stayed like this.

"Either did I." Clint went on, shaking his head. "Thought it was a mirage until Thor gave me a hug. Never ask Thor for a hug..."

"Weapons. Now." The man pushed. He pulled his pistol from his waist band, as if that would intimidate Clint in any way. He's usually gone by now, to leave Clint stewing in his thoughts for another few hours before asking again. Something had him desperate, something needing information quickly and he seemed to be willing to get it any way he could.

Clint smirked and sat up a little straighter.

"Oh my, have my friends found me after all?"

"Shut up." He growled, his friendly demeanour gone. Clint listened a little harder and could hear the running and moving outside the room. Asshole loaded the pistol and pointing it Clint's way. "Weapons."

"Fuck you." Clint spat. He didn't have the energy to try move or defend himself, so the bullet went right into his thigh without much effort.

A scream escaped him for a moment but that's all he allowed to show. He instinctively rolled away from the wall and leaned over to grip the side of his leg. He bit hard on his bottom lip until he tasted blood. He was a little more worried about the blood gushing out of the hole in his leg though. There was no way for him to stop it if he didn't get out of here soon.

"I'll work my way up to your head until you tell me." He was too calm for someone who just shot a man. Clint worried he's actually done this before.

"There's nothing to tell." Clint ground out between his clenched teeth, eyes not leaving the man even though he so really wanted to close them. He raised the gun again and the panic in Clint's mind set in. He held his hands up in surrender. "Wait, no, really! You chose the wrong Avenger, you really did, I make all my own stuff!"

"Bull shit." The man spat, standing to kick the chair away. Clint didn't like how high the weapon was raised, but shock was slowly setting in and black was creeping around his vision.

"I've made my stuff since I was a teenager, honest! All I know is there's a weapon cache in the tower but there's no way you're getting that."

"You underestimate me."

"I underestimate no one really-"

An explosion that rocked the building cut off his sentence. He followed his instinct and rolled onto his side - covering his head with his hands in case any debris fell.

There was a commotion outside - screaming, shooting, explosions, and - Clint smiled faintly. He'd know the sound of repulsor's anywhere.

"Get the fuck up." Asshole spat before Clint felt himself being dragged to his feet. A fierce blinding pain shot up trough him when he put pressure on his right foot, but the guy wasn't giving him a chance to remove the pressure at all. A strong forearm was wrapped around his neck, slightly cutting his airflow off but really it was just enough pressure to hold him in place. Still his hands raised to try scrape the arm away. He felt the barrel of the gun held against the side of his head and the pair waited.

Being sitting for so long meant suddenly being vertical had him light headed. The black crept a lot more around his eyes and he had to blink quickly to fight it away.

He must have slipped away for a moment because next time he blinked there was a stand off. Muffled voices shouted at one another - he could feel the rumble of the guys chest behind him as he screamed instructions. When his vision cleared enough he could just make out two shaped in front of him. Tony stood in full armour, hand raised and ready to fire. To his left was Natasha, gun raised and a look in her eyes that said she was a split second away from blowing his head out. There was still muffled noise from outside, they others were still fighting.

Natasha's mouth was moving, calm and composed as she always is in these situations. Tony's was behind his mask but the bass his ears were picking up were definitely his. He shook his head quickly to try clear his hearing. It made him a little light headed but when it cleared he could hear a little bit better. Natasha was watching him closely, she needed a plan. He nodded and closed his eyes.

His right leg was throbbing horribly right now but he knew what had to be done. He took as deep a breath as he could with an arm around his throat and put his hands back on said arm for a bit of support. Pulling on his hands as best he could he braced himself and swung his right leg back to strike the mans groin with all the force he could. It worked in stunning him - the arm around Clint's throat dropping from him. The pain it caused Clint's leg had him clattering to the ground with a holler of pain. He rolled away from the man as best he could before the sound of gun shots stopped him. He waited for the pain of another bullet to hit - face down on the ground with his hands covering his head.

But the pain never came. Just the damn throbbing in his leg getting worse and worse. A moment after he assessed himself he felt hands on his shoulder. He turned swiftly and swung upwards with a fist, but Natasha was quick enough to easily dodge.

Natasha's hands were up in surrender to let him know she wasn't a threat as he took deep breaths to try calm the adrenaline down. He watched her kneel down by his side and reach out - her hand falling on his cheek to keep him focused her way.

"You're ok." He read from her lips, she was speaking slow and careful. "Never sending you out alone again."

He couldn't help but smile a little, his body starting to shake uncontrollably as the energy finally left him.

He was safe, he knew he'd be. He knew they'd save him.

Darkness crept and he let it take him away.

Being kidnapped sucked. He really needed a nap. So he took one.


	8. Fever

_ **Fever** _

Late night tv was something that Steve would never really understand. Infomercials especially. Who would be up at 3:14am wanting to order something called a Wonder Bra? It was better than the talk shows at least. They were just mind numbing. Who cared about who slept with who? Don't show it off on national tv.

But when the bad nights struck and Steve couldn't find himself some sleep he'd sit up in bed and keep the tv on to try tire him out. A workout would sometimes help, but he didn't see the point right now. He worked out today already and he wasn't really in the mood.

He sighed and turned the tv off when the channel cycled back to the bra advert again. Rubbing his eyes to see if they were tired yet he decided it was a dud night and got out of bed. Dressing gown and slippers on he shuffled his way to the kitchen in the dark tower.

It was just himself and Clint here for a few days. Thor had gone home a while ago, Tony was off at some conference with Bruce, and Natasha had been away on assignment for a week. While the pair got on relatively well there was just not enough conversation or activities in such a large space for just the two of them to do without getting on each others nerves.

He hadn't seen the other man today. Steve wasn't sure if he was called away, if he went out, or if he just decided to avoid him all day. But here he was at 3am having been alone all day.

That was probably it, Steve thought as he entered the common areas. There was no interactions all day for him. He probably had pent up energy and way too many thoughts to sleep.

In the kitchen Steve poured himself a glass of milk and moved to relax in the sitting area. He paused a bit behind the sofa and frowned slightly when he saw the tv in the living area on. It was one of those soap operas that replay all the time, a little person in the bottom right corner offering sign language for it.

Clint.

"You up?" Steve called, continuing on his way to the sitting area. A harsh cough was the reply he got and it made him frown even more.

When he got close enough he peered over the back of the sofa. Clint was lying on his back with his arm slung over his eyes, a blanket wrapped loosely around him. There were violent shivers wracking his body despite the fact that beads of sweat were actually rolling down his face. He coughed once more and Steve knew then the reason he had been missing all day.

The poor guy was sick.

"Not doing too good?" Steve asked with a small smile, taking a sip of his milk as he watched Clint nod just the slightest.

"I feel like death." The man mumbled, his voice like gravel.

"Have you taken anything?" Steve moved around to the front of the sofa as he spoke, placing his milk on the coffee table before leaning down to inspect Clint a little further. He moved Clint's arm away from his eyes so that he could place his hand on the mans forehead. Sure enough there was a fever, and a relatively high one at that.

"Just throw things back up." He sighed. He opened his eyes to look up at Steve. Glazed would be an understatement for them. Bloodshot as all hell too, he hadn't rested much at all it looked like. Steve would even venture a guess that he thought all this was just a dream.

"I have something to help that. Just rest here." Steve smiled, pulling the blanket up to Clint's shoulders and tucking it tightly around him. The other man groaned a little but curled onto his side into the blanket.

Steve patted his shoulder reassuringly before standing and moving back to the kitchen.

His mind drifted as he worked around the cupboards to all those years ago when he'd get sick during the winter months. His mother would make this vegetable broth that would keep him hydrated and fed at the same time. Home remedy drugs back then weren't a thing, now it's better and he knew that there was a box of Tylenol in the drawer that he'd make Clint take. Back then it was soup, water, cold cloth, rest, and a prayer that God would help the person be at ease.

His mother was fantastic at it. She'd sense the first stirrings of a fever and jump on catching it before Steve would become fully bed ridden. Bucky was another story... Always a nervous wreck whenever Steve would get sick. The first fever that Steve had when they were living alone together he swore Bucky didn't leave his bed side for longer than it took to refill the water basin and refill the soup.

When the serum hit, and winter came, even during the war the times that the pair of them were home habit had Bucky stocking their cupboards with ingredients for soup. He couldn't bring himself to look at them when he had to arrive home with Bucky by his side.

Steve let his thoughts wander as he made a quick version of the broth. It would help his cough. Make him warmer probably, but he couldn't rest with a cough like that so he'd have to worry about that first.

"Friday, can you turn on the AC?" He asked the AI, and a second later he heard the fans kicking in. He had to keep Clint cool and relaxed any way he could.

With the broth, glass of water, and Tylenol on a tray he made his way back over the to sick man on the sofa. His eyes were trained on the tv, though Steve doubted he really saw much at all in his current state. Still though they locked onto Steve when he arrived in sight.

Clint shook his head a little when Steve set the tray down.

"My stomach, Cap." He mumbled, looking green at even the thought of anything. Steve ignored his protests and helped him sit up a little more, his back pressed against the arm of the sofa. Steve set the tray from the coffee table onto the mans lap.

"Its broth, Clint. Basically water but nicer and nutritious. It'll help, promise."

Clint pouted like a child and looked down the bowl, taking a shaking hand out from under the pills first. He swallowed them with a gulp of water from the glass before reaching out for the spoon.

When Steve was satisfied that the man would at least try he went back to the kitchen to get an ice pack from the freezer. Clint needed sleep, and he wouldn't get it while roasting.

When he got back to the sitting room - ice pack wrapped up in a face cloth - half the broth was already gone but Clint looked like he was done.

"That all you're gonna take?" Steve asked with a frown, Clint nodding in reply. He looked paler now, his eyes looking heavier.

Steve nodded back and took the tray, helping Clint lay down once more. "Well at least you have something in you."

"How d'you do it Steve?" Clint mumbled as Steve put the ice pack on his forehead. His eyes were trained on Steve, even if they were taking longer to open each time.

"Do what? The broth?" Steve asked quietly, hoping Clint would fall asleep if he was quiet enough. But Clint shook his head, meaning Steve had to put the ice pack back in it's place when it fell.

"Make everything better even when you need help." He yawned halfway through the sentence, easing back into the cushion then. Steve should probably carry him to his room, but he could keep an eye on him better out here. "Y'can't sleep t'night. But you're helpin' me. Y'have problems and just don't care."

"I do care." Steve shrugged. He moved to sit at the end of the sofa, lifting Clint's legs so he wouldn't sit on them to instead put them across his lap. Under the blanket was roasting but he could handle it. "But I prioritise. Your physical health is more a priority than my head screaming at me. Don't tell me you don't do that, I know you do."

"That's different..." Clint whispered. Sleep was definitely coming, but he just seemed to be fighting it.

"How so?"

Steve could see a smile creep onto Clint's face, the light of the tv casting soft shadows over him.

"I don't care about me." Clint went on. He was definitely delirious, he'd never answer a question like that normally. "I care about you guys... If you went anywhere I'd have nothing."

"You'd have plenty, Clint."

Clint shook his head again, making a groaning sound then. Steve guessed it caused a but of nausea. He fixed the ice pack once more.

"I liked tha'broth, Stevie..." Steve would ignore the pang his childhood nickname gave him right now. Clint didn't know what he was saying right now, he wouldn't hold it against him. "I love you guys..."

That was something Steve would hold against him forever.

Clint drifted off to sleep without another word, gentle murmurs coming from him in his dreams.

Steve smiled slightly and glanced at the tv that was still playing away, the volume all the way down. It showed 4:25am.

Steve fell asleep that night 5 minutes later to the woman on the bottom of the screen's gentle hand movements and Clint's soft snores.


	9. Stranded

_**Stranded** _

He hadn't been to a beach a lot in his life time. A memory kind of pulled at the back of his mind of when he was maybe a toddler, splashing in water with his mother. The smile she had was like nothing he had ever seen. Maybe that's why it was prevalent - it was one of the rare happy times in his early life he can remember.

Clint's hands opened and closed slowly to let the sand run through his fingers. He knew it was sand, how he knew was a different story. He just knew it was.

When he woke he was laying flat on his back - arms and legs spread out. He was staring up at the most clear blue sky. His eyes kept scanning without moving his head to try find a cloud but he couldn't see much anywhere.

He took stock, like he always did when he woke somewhere unfamiliar, and frowned. There was nothing wrong with him.

No aches or pains, no glaring stinging of a laceration or blinding ache of a broken bone. Not even any kind of headache which definitely should have been there if he was knocked out.

But was he...?

Clint turned his head to one side then to the other to see if there was anyone else with him. Maybe it was a group trip, maybe just him and Natasha, and he had fallen asleep and his mind was just trying to catch up with it all.

But there was no one. Just white sand as far as the eye could see.

_Stranded._

That's all he could think of.

Slowly he sat up, pulling his legs up a little closer to his body to sit cross legged. He looked out to the ocean, the waves lazily lapping onto the shore in front of him.

Whoever had knocked him out in the first place left him stranded here to die.

"That was in a movie, not real life..." He mumbled to himself, scratching the back of his head to think about it. "Jack Sparrow... Captain Jack Sparrow."

He sighed to himself and shook his head. He took a quick glance down to see he was in some dressy clothes - by his standards anyway. A nice pair of jeans, a button up shirt. The only thing beach worthy about him would be his bare feet.

"Yo ho ho," he sang to himself, shifting his weight to stand up and start walking towards the water. "And a bottle of rum."

Clint had to figure out where he was. Something in his brain was trying to tick itself over, trying to scream a location or scenario at him to tell him that here - this is what happened, now make it right.

But something much stronger was blocking it.

When his toes hit the water something major in his head screamed. It had him letting out a yell and shutting his eyes tight. It wasn't a feeling, he couldn't call it a feeling, this was more like a static that was trying to tune itself into something clear.

The only reason he knew that his hands had shot up over his ears during the attack was because he felt someone else's placed over them. Softly, delicately, not in an aggressive or threatening way. It was the only thing stopping him lashing out at whoever it was.

That and he was completely frozen on the spot. The static was beginning to clear, not to any other signal but it was beginning to clear to nothing at all. He took a few deep breaths and held his hands where they were for another while longer, until he remembered he wasn't alone anymore.

He opened his eyes to find he was looking down at the ocean lapping around his ankles, another pair of bare feet just in front of his. When his eyes opened the pair of hands dropped, so he did the same, letting his hands fall to his side.

"You're ok. Don't panic." The person said - female. So damn familiar that it broke Clint's heart.

He swallowed a lump in his throat and allowed his eyes to slowly travel up the person's frame. The figure was clad in a white silk dress - light enough to flow in what soft breeze there was. She wasn't tall, though he always thought the opposite, so he met her eyes in no time.

"Mom." He breathed, taking a careful step back from the woman.

Clint's mom- Edith - had a soft smile on her face, one hand clutching the necklace around her neck with the other resting gently across her stomach. He could see it twitching to reach out for him, to do something, but she settled with fixing whatever stray blond locks of her hair would blow into her face back into place and making sure her dress stayed down.

Edith Barton died at a young age, younger than Clint was now. But her eyes held a distress that Clint wished he could take away.

"No no no," He stammered, taking two more steps back before losing his footing in the mushy sand and falling flat on his ass. He was panicking too much to feel any pain from it - or to worry about why he couldn't feel any pain at all. "You're dead."

"Clint listen-" She started, taking a step towards him before stopping when he shook his head quickly.

"You're dead!" He screamed it this time, eyes wide. He looked around the beach for anything to let him know this was a dream - Natasha, Phil, a circus clown, a hoard of puppies running to him with a box of pizza. But there was nothing. There was just the pair of them and the tide. He screwed his eyes shut and shook his head some more. He was not hyperventilating, prove it! "You're dead. This is a dream. You're dead, you're dead, you're dead, you're-"

"Clinton!"

He froze at the use of his full name, keeping his eyes shut to just wish it all away. Even when he heard the swishing of water approaching and felt the presence of another person - a ghost - beside him.

Silence fell between them. He didn't trust himself to open his mouth again without screaming that she's dead, that his dad killed them both in a car crash and there was no way that she could be here. That she was dead, she died, she was no longer living, she had no life anymore.

Edith seemed to not like that though, so he stayed quiet.

When minutes - hours, days? Clint couldn't tell - passed he heard a gentle sigh from beside him.

"I'm dead." She said softly. The gentle admission had him opening his eyes. He didn't look her way, instead keeping his eyes on the horizon.

"Then I'm-"

"No." She cut across. He nodded slightly, even if he didn't understand. "Close, yes. So close. But I can't let that happen."

"Mom..." He looked at her then, frowning. She was watching the horizon as well, the softest of smiles on her lips.

She deserved so much better. She deserved the world and more, she deserved a long and full life. She deserved happiness, wealth, good times, a loving family, grandchildren.

He should have looked after her. Should have been stronger, should have been better, should have given her that life that he knew she so rightly deserved. Instead she got two fuck up sons, an abusive murdering husband and-

"Don't even think of it." He jumped at her words, his eyebrow arching at them. She still wasn't looking his way, but her smile had fallen slightly. "It's not a child job to worry about their parents. You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I never worried about my parents." He mumbled, looking away from her and back out to his spot far away. "Just my mom..."

"Your father was a complicated-"

"That's a funny was of pronouncing ass." Clint cut in with a growl, flinching when he felt a smack on the back of his head.

"Watch your mouth." Edith scolded. Despite everything happening Clint had to smile. She sighed a moment later. "You've been through worse than I ever went through... I'm the one sorry for that."

"That's life." Clint shrugged. That's always his answer to that sort of comment because god help whoever he's talking to whenever he finally does open up about it all.

"You're in a good place now though. That's all that matters." She whispered, Clint would almost say it sounded like pride.

He had to nod, because he was. He so was. Things in his life were finally falling into place and working. He had friends, a home, a girlfriend, a job. Everything he never thought he'd have was there. And it had him the happiest he's ever been.

That static in his head happened again and he groaned, rubbing his eyes roughly to try ease it. He felt Edith rub his back in soothing circles and it helped, it really did.

"I think that why someone on the other side is fighting so hard for you."

"What..?" He whispered, opening one of his eyes because the feeling was still there and damn it hurt like a bitch.

"Clint, what's the last thing you remember?" She asked carefully, but there was still a block there. The static eased off once more but he still couldn't access whatever memory was locked in there. He shook his head as an answer. "I suppose you've been here a while... I don't expect you will remember."

"A while?" Clint frowned, looking her way once more. Her hand was still rubbing small circles on his back, though she was eyeing him up and down. "How long?"

"I don't want you to panic, but it's a good thing you woke up. That's a good sign."

"So if I'm awake, and that means I'm alive, and you're awake, then-"

"Still dead." She chuckled, shaking her head. "I'm just your mind trying to come through the fog."

"So I'm talking to myself... Great." He grumbled, falling back to lay in the shallow water and watch the sky again. He heard Edith laugh fully this time and it brought a smile to his face. "How much longer will I be stranded?"

"No long." She replied quietly. There was a pink glow across the sky now, the sun was setting. He rolled his head to get an angle at looking at his mom again - just enough to see the back of her head. "The static is pulling you back, the sun is setting, not long."

"Sun's getting real low." Clint said quietly, turning his head again to look at the sky. "My mind is not creative at all... Leaving me stranded on a beach, showing me my mom, waking me up to the Hulks lullaby... What is that shit?"

He heard Edith chuckle once more, from the corner of his eye he saw her lay down next to him. She reached out a hand and he took hold of it, the pressure firm. She pulled his hand up and gave it a soft kiss.

"I'm proud of you, honey." She whispered. The lump came back to Clint's throat with a vengeance. "When it  _is_  your time I'll be right here waiting. But it isn't now."

"It could be." His voice stayed a whisper like hers. The sun was nearly set, shadows were dancing across her face now. "Mom, I still have so much to talk to you about, ask you, learn from you..."

"You should have had that years ago, I'm sorry you didn't." She sighed. His eyes were getting heavier. Each blink was harder to open again. "You still have business to attend to though, and I can't take you from that. But next time I'll be here with a picnic and some tea and we can spend all day talking."

"Promise? Because I miss you. So damn much." He asked, slurred, weary. He was getting weak.

"Promise. I love you, Clint." Her reply was strong. Edith disappeared when the beach and the world went black.

"...Clint? Clint, come on, open up."

He groaned and pulled his eyes tightly together. He felt heavy, achy, sluggish. Drugged, but not in the bad way.

The pain hit like a truck and he inhaled sharply. Everywhere seemed to be on fire, he couldn't pin point pain to one specific place.

Clint took stock, like he always did when he woke somewhere unfamiliar.

He knew he was lying down, pillows propping his head up. His arm was definitely in a cast, for a while now if the itchiness there was anything to go by. His head was thumping as well, no clear thought could go through it other than the thought that he didn't want to be here. There was somewhere else he wanted to be, but he couldn't remember now.

"Come on sleeping beauty... My face isn't that bad."

He exhaled a short laugh at the words, familiarity springing up. He felt a hand on his cheek and it made him force his eyes open.

A blurry figure was in front of him, though after blinking a few times it cleared to the red headed beauty he knew as Natasha Romanoff. She was back dropped by a hospital room, the steady beep of a heart monitor cementing that assumption in his mind.

She gave him a smile that screamed relief. He knew it must have been bad for him if she so willingly did so. She had a firm hold on his free hand and was leaning over his bed to stay in his vision. He locked eyes with hers and tried his best to smile, even if it did require more energy than he currently had.

"Welcome back." She whispered, moving her hand from his cheek to run through his hair. She gave his locks a slight tug. "I would have killed you if you left me stranded alone with the team."


	10. Bruises

** _Bruises_ **

There were not a lot of certainties in life. You're born, you live, you die. They were the major ones. Add to that trinity the certainty that Clint Barton will try his damndest to keep up with super humans no matter what the challenge is, because that's always certain.

Natasha hated it sometimes. She knew her limits, she knew when not to push something just because others could do what she couldn't. She knew not to try out run Steve, or take on a multitude of battles like Thor. She knew not to go against the big guns like Stark, or the big guys like Hulk.

She had her skill sets, skill sets she knew they didn't have, and that's what she worked with.

Clint knew that too, she was sure of that. But he was also way too confident in his abilities, and way too caring to refuse helping out a member of the team even if they didn't require it.

Coming back to the tower one night after a call out she knew that something was up with him. His walk was a little laboured, and his smile though genuine was pained to her trained eyes.

The team were laughing and joking all the way home, and he kept up with them all no problem at all. She knew that they would have noticed nothing in the difference. It was a large fight they got in. Not glamorous, or dangerous, but long and had multiple marks to take out.

They did the usual - showered, changed, had drinks and take out, retired to bed. Clint had pretty much fallen into their bed by the very end of the night, and within moments he was conked out, dead to the world for the evening. She watched him by the foot of the double bed for a moment. He was sprawled out on his stomach, a position he never usually slept in, arms under his pillow and his face turned towards the side so he could breath.

Natasha frowned just the slightest. She couldn't do anything about it now, so she climbed in next to him and fell asleep moments after her head sank into her pillow.

Clint wasn't an early riser. In all of the years she's known him she was always awake before he was, except when he had early missions or she really needed to rest. This was neither of those times.

Yet when she opened her eyes early the next morning the space beside her was empty - she could faintly make out his humming from their bathroom mixing with the sound of a tap running.

"Clint?" She called out, stifling a yawn that threatened to come out after wards. Even if she was an early riser it didn't mean she wasn't still tired for a while after waking.

"'Uhhing 'eet'" Clint's muffled reply came just before she heard him spit in the sink. She smiled to herself.

Natasha pulled the blanket from over her and stood, pulling a robe over her shoulders before making her way to the bathroom.

"Couldn't have spit before speaking to me?" She laughed softly as she entered the bathroom.

"I know it annoys you. Best way to start my morning." He laughed quietly. He had his back to the door, facing the mirror. He had nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist - freshly showered - and was currently shaving the bit of stubble build up he had.

She didn't care about any of that though. Her eyes were more drawn towards his back.

Deep angry looking purple bruises crossed across his back - stretching from his shoulder blades down to below the towel. It looked like a mixture of getting hit hard there and falling hard there.

"Clint..." She whispered, shocked. His hand paused in it's shaving and he raised an eyebrow at her in the mirror. He looked confused until he spotted where her attention was, a sigh came from him a moment later.

"Looks worse than it is." He mumbled, tapping the loose hairs off on the side of the sink before setting about his shaving once more.

There were always bruises littering his skin when they worked for SHIELD, sparring each day would ensure that before missions would. But never this bad, never so angry that it looked like his chest was shaking with every inhale. Whatever happened yesterday to caused this was extreme and she really needed to get him checked out. It was bad enough that he didn't think to hide the pain from her entirely, or it was just too much to even think about it.

Before any of that though, before even thinking of trying to force him to see someone, she went up and wrapped her arms around his waist, her forehead resting gently against his neck.

He paused once more, stock still, the only sound in the room being the running water and their shared breathing.

"You're an idiot." She whispered, giving the back of his neck a soft kiss. "You're a complete idiot, what were you thinking?"

"We have a job to do." He whispered back, the razor dropping in the sink so he could place his hands over hers. "A few bruises are nothing, Nat. We have a job and there's no compromising it."

A few bruises are nothing, but this was not nothing.

She didn't argue though. She knew he was right.

Natasha simply gave the large bruise in the centre of his back a gentle kiss and hoped beyond hope he would learn someday to stop acting like a super human.

Otherwise it would be a lot worse than just bruises next time.


	11. Hypothermia

_**Hypothermia** _

In his many days on missions Clint had been in some horrible places. Stuck in the desert with no pick up after missing his extraction, sitting in a cabin in the woods ten miles from the next closest human being for three months, even sitting in a rat infested piss stain derelict building in the back ass of no where to keep an eye on an organisation that he isn't allowed disclose the name of to anyone else in the world.

Alaska in the middle of winter was now the top of his list.

It was beautiful, don't miss-understand. During the day it was fantastic, and the place they were staying in was relatively nice for a SHIELD sanctioned mission. When the night hit they were able to light a fire and relax and just forget about the outside world.

Tonight was not one of those nights.

Clint had to do recon. Natasha had done it this day last week, the day that the underground fight club meets, the night that their mark should eventually show his face in the place.

Tonight he learned that after nine weeks of going they were finally made. Or maybe they just really pissed off the wrong person and they wanted rid of him for a while.

The blow to the back of his head happened once the meet was over, 4:17 am if he recalled correctly. He had one foot out the door and the next thing he knew he was seeing stars and was on the ground cocooned by the snow that had been falling for days now.

Rather than being attacked again or taken out completely someone sat on Clint's back, knocking the air out of him. Shivers began racking his body violently, but he still tried to push the man off of him when his hands were grabbed.

"Come on guys!" He protested, though it sounded pathetic with his teeth chattering. All the layers in the world couldn't help him with being face down in the snow. "We can work this o-omf."

A kick to the side of his head shut him up, his neck snapping to the side. He groaned and tried blink the white spots away. Zip ties secured his hands behind his back, and his head was yanked up to stuff something in his mouth. This was bad.

A half a second later then he was dragged, roughly, he was sure there would be a hell of a bruise on his ankle tomorrow.

_If there is a tomorrow now..._

He tried his best. He kicked out with his free foot, tried turn on his side to escape his hold, screamed beneath his gag, tried make their life hell.

The snow made it impossible. The shaking had become worse, and he could feel it all draining his energy. The large jacket he was wearing was already soaked through so it hindered his attempts at being warm rather than helping them.

He never welcomed being thrown in a van so much in his life. He kicked out at the men one last time before they shut the door, leaving Clint on his back in a position that did some serious pain to his arms.

_Ok..._

He began shaking his leg to keep the feeling there, clasping and unclasping his hands, doing anything to keep circulation going as they drove along.

_It's ok... Keep the blood moving, keep going, keep... I don't know._

He groaned, his eyes closing tightly to try calm his mind. What was happening? He didn't know, he couldn't think, plans weren't coming. All that was there was this damn cold.

Before he knew it the van slammed to a stop, throwing him backwards and sending a sharp pain through his shoulder. That was gonna suck...

When the doors opened again he didn't even have a chance to fight before he was dragged out, against by the ankle. He hit his head hard on the step up to the van and it had him unable to move lying in the snow.

"Take his clothes." He heard one man say, low, threatening. The others did as they were told, taking Clint's clothes right down to his boxers. The snow on his bare skin was burning, and as he lay there gagged and tied he could hear snickers all around him.

He was going to kill each and every one of them.

"We don't like your organisation anywhere near us." Man who made the orders said loudly, Clint couldn't tell where he was, he was too busy looking up at the sky, the snow falling and distracting him from everything.

The guy kept talking, Clint couldn't tell you what he was saying. He felt more blows on his body, they were beating him to get a reaction, but he was numb to it all. He was just numb.

_At least the shaking stopped..._

Something in the back of his mind screamed that shaking was good, he needed shaking, but why would he want shaking? That would mean he's cold.

He's not cold anymore.

"Clint?" How did they know his name? How did they sound female? "Clint, come on, focus."

He blinked and realised that in front of him wasn't snow anymore. He was still on the ground, he was still tied, but the gag was gone. In front of him was a pair of concerned green eyes scanning his, waiting for something from him.

What was she waiting on?

"Wha..?" He tried lamely, squinting in confusion. "Nat?"

"I have to get you warm, Clint. You need to help me get you to the car, ok?" She sounded worried, why was she worried? He was fine.

He was tired.

So tired.

But he wasn't cold. Why would she need to warm him up?

He fell asleep instead, because the snow was comfortable now.

* * *

 

Natasha put another log into the fireplace, the fire inside it springing a little more to life before setting down to a steady blaze. She watched the flames for a moment, a frown on her face. It's been on since the idiot she was stuck on mission with missed his check in.

Thank god for trackers, that's all she'll say.

Thank god for being allowed nearly kill / actually kill people. Because those little mobster wannabees deserved it for what they did.

They had to wait for extraction, that's what Fury told her. Even when she tried tell him Barton needed med evac there was no hope. If he has a pulse and he isn't nearly dead then Fury won't waste resources.

She wondered for a while if he was nearly dead.

He was so blue, and fell so still when she got to him. She didn't know how long they had him like that; undressed in the snow and literally burying him in it. Long enough to have him confused, have him in shock, have him still passed out nearly five hours later.

She turned from the fire place and looked to the sofa opposite it, Clint still lying still on his back under all the blankets she could find in this safe house. She had to drive him fifteen minutes in the car with nothing but the jackets she stole from the assholes and the heating on the vehicle. It didn't seem enough.

She took the couple of steps to the chair she had set up next to him and sat down on it, placing her fingers gently to his neck to get a pulse.

Slowly getting stronger, and he had been shaking for a few hours now so he had gotten through the shock. She had to dress some wounds on his wrists from the zip ties, and he'd be in some crazy amount of pain when he woke, but he was breathing and that's all that matters.

"You thinkin' 'oo much," She jumped slightly at the slurred words, too lost in her own thoughts. Definitely thinking too much.

She looked up from the spot she found interest in on the blanket to see a pair of glassed eyes smiling up at her. She smiled back - reassuring if nothing else for him, pure relief filled if nothing else for her - before moving her hand from his neck to cup his cheek. She took his aids out when she put him on the sofa, he wouldn't be able to hear her, she had to keep him focused on her lips.

"How are you feeling?" She asked slowly, every word pronounced clearly. He knew the reason and followed her lips.

"Cold." He whispered back, his smiled falling to a frown. He pulled a hand out from under the blankets to rub at his eyes. He always looked like a child when he did that.

"You're out of action for a few days, ok?" She said as she tucked his arm back under the blankets, pulling them right up to his shoulders. "Hypothermia is nothing to joke about."

"Worry wart." He laughed, his eyes opening a little more. There was a little spark there, so much better than the dull version she had found lying on the ground in that park hours previous. He winced suddenly, laughing must have jostled something. She'd give him some pain killers when he got some soup into him.

"If I don't worry about your ass, no one will." She retorted. She stood and ruffled his hair. Before she could move though his hand shot out and grasped hers.

She frowned down at him, his eyes pleading for something that his mind was trying to articulate. It hadn't rebooted yet, and his hold was no where nearly as firm as it usually was. He still had a long way to recovery.

And she knew what that meant.

A small smile crept onto her face and she nodded, so he lifted the blankets and moved back flush against the back of the sofa, giving her enough room to lay down and slot right against him.

The blankets draped over the pair of them and his arm snaked around her waist, keeping her close.

Clint was clingy normally, even more so when sick.

Hypothermia Clint was going to be a pain.


End file.
